Normal
by cellophane prince
Summary: Married life didn't seem to be all it was cracked up to be. Byron vs. Norman.


Norman sat beside the door in his living room, his stubbly chin in his hands, his dark eyes focused on a spot on the ground where the carpet had been scuffed. He consciously noticed for the first time that the furniture arrangement in their home had not changed since his son had been born.

Though he spoke little of it, today was a special day for Norman.

"Is Daddy going to be home tomorrow?" his child asked at the dinner table the night previous.

He chewed his potatoes silently, aloof.

"No, Brendan. Tomorrow's a special day for Daddy," his wife responded, pouring their son more orange juice from across the table.

"Does he have a--" Brendan hiccuped. "--a battle?"

Norman's face cracked into a half-smile, moving his hand across his small son's tufts of white hair. "Not exactly, guy."

"His friend is coming to see him tomorrow, Brendan. All the way from Sinnoh. Wow, doesn't that sound far?" She turned to Norman, eyelashes fluttering, lips pursed and shining with a faint layer of lipstick. "When did you say Byron was arriving in town, Dad?"

At first, his eyebrows furrowed at the sound of his wife calling him such. They had decided -- meaning, she had decided for them -- that as long as they had children in the house, they would refer to each other as their children did. It was so that Brendan wouldn't feel alienated at any moment, at any time, for any reason.

Norman still wasn't completely used to it. He had a difficult time getting used to a lot of things. Swallowing, pausing his continued stabbing motions into his plate, he responded, "Midday."

"When's that?" Brendan asked. His mop of hair fell over his face; there was food in it.

"In the middle of the day, silly," Norman joked, looking at his food as he continued to eat.

"That is vague, dear," his wife asked pointedly. She set down her fork, picking at the napkin in her lap with her fingers. "Did he even tell you? When was the last time you talked to him?"

He looked up from his meal and gazed at her. Round nose, plush lips...her eyes reflected the light deeply into his own, her hair curling perfectly down her shoulders and around her breasts. The pores on her face were blanketed with thin sheets of makeup; her face curled softly as she spoke, deepening wrinkles springing from the shadows in which they had been concealed. She was beautiful. But as Norman watched her body operate, he kept to himself in silence the notion that perhaps something wasn't quite the way it should be, though he thought it was probably something that he was missing. Something was wrong with him. He was never fully able to pin down the reasons why, but that was mostly because he didn't allow himself to do so.

"Dad," she stated impatiently.

He had shaken his head, jolting back to full attention.

The next morning came as it always had. The weather in their region was often mild. Normally he would leave to his gym in Petalburg City very early each day, but he had given himself the day off, figuring it was just as well as it was rare for a trainer of worthy strength to enter the gym at all, anyway.

"Then why don't you spend more time at home with us, if you're not doing anything else?" his wife had asked the night before, sparking an uneasy argument that left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He was never very good with words.

Brendan was at school. Small town, small community. He had taken the opportunity to walk his son to kindergarten that morning, wearing a pair of jeans and a baseball cap to cover his black hair. Though it was common for Pokemon gym leaders to downplay their appearances outside of work, he preferred the outfit out of comfort more than anything else.

He held his son's entire fist in his hand as they walked down the path together, Brendan's oversized box-like backpack clunking loudly against his spine. The morning fog hadn't settled completely.

"Daddy," he said suddenly, looking up. "Your friend is coming today, and..." He paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "...and did you have to go to school with your friend?"

Norman's free hand was in his pocket. He gazed into the overcast sky enveloping the wooded horizon in the distance. "We did something like that," he responded.

Soon he was back in his own house. Hours passed; his wife had busied herself with menial household chores, out of routine, leaving Norman alone to stir in his thoughts. He was a simple man. He had a family, he had a job, and he took both tasks very seriously, as much as his wife had argued otherwise. He considered taking his Pokemon out to train a bit in their cramped yard, but, again, his own mindset kept him from merging his home and his work lives so easily. Things were different when he was a young trainer, but they were supposed to be.

So he sat. The television set was on; glancing at it, he recognized a trainer featured on the news. He had battled the trainer before at his gym, but apart from that the program wasn't particularly interesting. He considered turning it off and having sex with his wife, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. He didn't have the energy to talk her into it, or rather, he didn't care enough.

There was a knocking at the door.

---

The pub clattered with the scraping sounds of chairs and the sliding of glasses filled with deep yellow brew across the edges of the tables. It wasn't a particularly busy night. At a place like this, it rarely was. A few of the local nightgoers shot sideways glances at Byron, dressed in boots and torn, fitted pants. His muscles filled the creases of his sleeveless shirt with ease, and his scruffy face covered the rim of his mug as he drank cleanly from it.

"So," he said finally. "Caroline seems to be doing well."

Norman nodded, his knee jerking subconsciously as he was perched on a stool. "She's been real stressed out lately. Apparently Brendan's been getting in trouble with the other kids in his class. Can't sit still during story time; he's got too much energy."

Byron nodded solemnly. Norman shifted slightly in his seat.

"How's your little guy?"

The slightly older man set his heavy glass down before him, paw lingering on the handle. "Roark? Just entered third grade, he did. Not too far ahead. Kid's smart as hell, but damn quiet."

"Sounds like the opposite of mine."

"Mmm, naw," Byron growled. "Don't say that. Your son is probably just as smart as any. Smarter, the way you're raisin' him. S'easy to get caught in the ideas of being too good or not good enough. Gotta find the right balance, the right spot. Limit his insecurities."

Norman's gaze was stoic. The two were silent for a moment.

"Yeah, but on the other hand, sometimes I feel like I, uh...like I'm not doing enough, you know?" Norman's words trailed as he realized the weight of what he was admitting. "Like more is on autopilot than it should be. That ever happen to you?"

The sounds of clinking soared across the room.

"Children are nature's currency," Byron said suddenly, his voice husky, his shoulders hunched over himself as he took another swig from his drink. Norman looked at him with surprise.

"We're only as valuable as the good things we can produce. If we can't make something worth passing on to our next generation, then we're useless to them. They're what's important, not us. Always." His eyes were a steely shade of brown. He seemed focused only on what was in front of him, when unexpectedly he turned to Norman and smiled, his dark red hair throwing itself over his own eyes like a flame.

For a short while, they said nothing. Observing the roughness, the creases in each other's worn faces, their eyes parted only to glance further at their features from the sides. Then, "I know what you're thinkin', Norm. And you don't have to worry about it."

He knew. Somehow, he must have. Further shock vibrated through the dark-haired man's body, but he masked it with a smile, avoiding eye contact. "What are you talkin' about now, Byron?" His knee continued to bounce, nervously.

Byron still sat, unmoving. "You're good enough."

---

The Hoothoots cooed in the depths of the woods amidst the cool, crisp darkness that enveloped the edge of town. The half-paved ground crunched beneath Byron's boots as his coat fluttered behind him, draped around his shoulders like a cape. He wasn't familiar with the area. Curious with the type of Pokemon that inhabited the region, he peered into the bushes beside the run-down building, outside of which he waited quietly.

The clouds spread their breadth across the sky, glowing brilliantly before the moon. He was on a traveling journey, taking time to himself as he so often did. His son Roark was with his grandfather in Oreburgh. Today Byron was passing through and decided to drop by for an old friend, and that was it. He had no commitments.

It was just like old times.

The front door of the building clattered as Norman passed through it, glancing carefully at his surroundings before shaking a key in Byron's direction, his baseball cap pulled low over his head. His jaw quivered inside his mouth.

"208."

The lock clicked, and with a creak the thin door gave way to a room covered in darkness, the sheets reflecting a faded white against the moonlight funneling in through the window blinds. A musty smell lingered, spreading faintly throughout the black space. As they stepped reluctantly through the doorway Norman flicked on the dirty switch that powered the single bulb on the ceiling, hanging beneath a rotating fan that had seen its better days of cobwebs and dust.

The two moved in silence, removing their coats and setting them atop worn, wooden chairs. "Not so bad. How much was it?" Byron asked in a low voice. Norman shook his head. Running his hand through his widow's peak, he turned to his comrade. "Don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

Norman's fingers twitched. His hand moved carefully from massaging his own head to grasping Byron's upper thigh, pulling him closer.

"Yeah."

For a second, they stayed that way. Norman ground his teeth anxiously, looking the other man in the eye, wondering faintly if he had overstepped by grabbing him so brusquely. In resonse, Byron moved his hand to Norman's shoulder and began pumping it gently, therapeutically. Their faces gravitated dangerously close. Norman suddenly stepped backward and looked at his own body, hesitantly, then took off his shirt. He threw the article of clothing to the floor, before moving forward and pressing his lips roughly against the shroud of stubble that covered the skin on Byron's face.

Byron watched him. He always had. He studied the movements of his partner; the comments, the gestures. The narrowing of his eyes at important moments. Neither of them could help but smile as they sidestepped, concentrating on multiple things at once. Awkwardly taking off shoes during foreplay, just like kids.

Moments passed; their last conscious concerns pulled their eyes to the window and to the door, seeing that both were covered and locked. Teeth clinked. There was no further hesitation now, no mutual lack of response, not absence of purpose. They knew what they were doing, and they knew what they had been waiting for. They were men. Clothing gone, the soft hair on Byron's chest trailing down his stomach into Norman's fingers, they stretched across the bed forcefully, tasting the beer on each other's breath, sheets creasing underneath them. It wasn't that they preferred to roll atop of the blankets and comforter of the double-sized mattress; they just didn't think about it. They didn't care. And as Norman's hair splayed messily away from his scalp, he briefly held the other body more tightly against his own, before turning over drunkenly onto his stomach as the submissive, gasping for air.

His skin was warm with massage. Byron's torso swiveled as though on a hinge. Norman felt the pressure begin to burn inside him, and gasped further.

When they were young, the occasions were less easy. Their discoveries happened by pure chance, punctuated by throaty coughs and glances at their clocks, and as they explored each other more each time their days spent apart became more lengthy, frightening, their penchants for small talk increasing uncharacteristically. No one else understood why, and they never would.

The two had been sucked into their expectations. It was part a deeper game. Girls were prizes to the boys; they were lovely, they were candy, they were classic toys with perfect hair, and they required chatting up because their attention was a reward. The concepts were simple. The boy and the girl were similar in that they were made to be seen. The interaction between each other left them at a peak of emotion. When Norman met his wife, she had dreamed of making love. It was what brought them together, yet it simultaneously reflected their separations. His wife was a woman. Boys fucked.

Time passed; positions switched. Byron opened his eyes. Norman's face was contorted in concentration, his eyelids squinted shut, tears forming at the edges. The red-haired man tilted his head in childlike curiosity, seemingly unattached for a moment in his clarity, as he studied the heaving weight of their locked-up feelings spilling onto the white sheets like tears.

For the moment, they were finished. Norman sat at the edge of the bed, posture slumped, as Byron discovered the edge of the blankets, his scratchy hands peeling them away from the mattress. He cleared his throat and all was still, until Norman's shoulders began to vibrate with silent heaves that neither of them anticipated nor understood.

Hesitating, Byron scratched his cheek, looking away. He didn't know whether to comfort, or to leave be. He frowned, not knowing where his boundaries were. He was stuck.

After another few seconds, he finally said something.

"You okay?"

Further silence.

"Hey."

Tears streamed down Norman's face, flushed with the rush of emotions he had been hiding from his life. Catching himself, he smiled weakly, voice deepened and curled to match.

"God...dammit." He laughed incredulously. "I can't..." He wiped his nose with his arm, his bare back reflecting the light still shining through the slits in the window blinds. "...I can't fucking believe this."

Swinging his legs across the opposite end of the bed, Byron reluctantly moved his pants over his body and stood. "What's not to believe?"

Breathing deeply, Norman gradually began to assume control over himself. "I just...I don't know, Byron. I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"I'm not good enough, and that's it." Norman said, rubbing his reddened eyes. "That's all there is. I'm not fucking good enough. I'm not happy. They know that I'm not happy. All I have is a wife and a kid..." He sniffed. "And I can't even fucking do that right. Just look at me."

Byron stood still, facing forward, the hair on his neck bristling.

"Look at me!" Norman stood up and faced the other, the red marks of fingers still shown on his chest. "My wife still expects me to have sex with her from the front and my family depends on me to keep our house, our life together. My son!" He moved his hands to his forehead in exasperation. "My son is five fucking years old! And what am I doing to them?" He shook his head. "I'm not even thirty yet. When I'm not working I spend my time at home loafing around like somebody's grandfather, sad as all hell like I've been...mourning something. Mourning what? My own choices? My own decisions?" He subconsciously scratched his side, head hung. "Here I am, standing buck naked in front of a childhood friend. A childhood fling." More rubbing. "And I'm sorry to have to say that, By. But I don't know if this was the right thing. Things have changed."

A pause; the air was thick.

"You know, you're not the only one with a kid," Byron said, softly. He moved in closer. "My son's not much older than yours. You think nobody understands you, huh? Like nobody's had to deal with this stuff before?" His hand clapped on Norman's chest firmly. They gazed into each other, something that neither of them did often. Their eyes spoke volumes as Byron's hand moved comfortingly to Norman's broad shoulder.

"As long as there's some guy as average as me and as average as you out here in this world, you ain't gonna be alone. Now I'm no good at this feel-better business..."

He crouched down to the floor, picking up a pair of jeans. "...but as far as I can tell, you're still doing what you're doing and I'm doing what I'm doing...and we've still got our children, Norman. You've still got your wife. More than anything, perhaps you two are even still friends. That's a hell of a lot more than most guys can say."

Norman looked away and grinned, his face still wet.

"Growing pains," Norman told himself, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "You'd think they'd stop."

"Stop? Well maybe..." Byron handed him his pants and watched as he stumbled over them, pulling them up around his waist, dark hair still poking out from the top. "...Maybe anybody else would think of things like that. How all the horrible things, the hardships of life, would only hit you once and then be over. Just like that."

Their eyes met again as Byron continued.

"We don't have to share about this, Norm. Nothing's changed. Nobody has to know. But just think about it, you know, and I guess the rest of it's up to you."

He scratched a foot with his toes, shifting his weight.

"You have the choice of living your life as you see it now. With your perfect this, and your perfect that. The choice to live under the normalcy that everyone else in the world wishes they had."

Byron moved his hand to Norman's and they stood, fingers locked, for the first time.

"Or you could live your life the way it is. If only the rest of the world knew themselves like that, isn't it? Without restriction, without emotional constraint--"

Their foreheads rested upon each other, noses brushing as Norman spoke.

"--then maybe the idea of being normal wouldn't be so heartbreaking."


End file.
